


Why Caged Birds Sing

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, BAMF Castiel, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, CIA Hitman Dean Winchester, Captivity, Clandestine Operations, Criminal Castiel, Dark, Dark Castiel, Dark Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of trafficking, Mpreg, Murder Husbands, Near Death Experiences, Not everything is how it seems, Omega Dean, Possessive Castiel, Protective Castiel, Top Castiel, Top Dean, dark themes, kidnapping of sorts, more tags may be added later on, somewhat slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7467510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have twice the buy in for your tournament,” Dean presses, not daring to lay all his cards on the table just yet. </p><p>Dark brows inch upwards at the proposal. “I typically win triple that amount.” Placing the glass onto the bar, he wonders pensively, “Is there more you’re willing to risk, aside from money?”</p><p>Dean inhales deeply, conceiving the trap he may very well be waltzing into. “Anything you want.”</p><p>Turning his eyes downcast, the Seraph thoughtfully traces a finger along the rim of his glass. Each passing second almost as unbearable as the job at hand; that is, until the keen stare returns. The Alpha ominously concise in his reply: “You.”</p><p>-----<br/>*On hiatus*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

**Chapter One**

 

 

  
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams  
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream  
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied  
So, he opens his throat to sing"

_-Maya Angelou_

 

 

 

A sharp rapping tugs him from the clutches of a vivid nightmare. One born from illicitly obtained photographs, consecutive months of irregular sleep, and a nightly routine involving five fingers of some cheap, bottom shelf swill. The unexpected sound all but jerking him back to consciousness, while dispelling the gruesome tableau of mangled corpses littered at his feet. Their glazed over, lifeless eyes transfixed upon him, as rivulets of blood inch towards him in spidery, crimson veins.

Dean jolts to full cognizance when the rapping persists. Whoever it is insistent upon waking him regardless of his sleep deprivation.

“What?” he grumbles, irritable, and peels his cheek from the cool glass of the car window to properly glare at the asshole who’s disturbed his slumber. Not entirely surprised to be met with a mirroring gaze, one which he’s been graced with damn near every encounter with the ever elusive co-worker—or should he claim, co-conspirator?

Hell if he knew the correct term.

After all, being an independent gun for hire falls within a marginal grey area of justice. Especially, where governmental agencies are involved—surreptitiously employing killers like him to straddle the line of sanctioned security procedures and unlawful executions in their stead. His expendability glaringly obvious, even despite the luxuries he’s afforded for his dexterity and continued silence. Knowing, that it’s far better to be conscious of the fact he’s walking on thin ice than delude himself into thinking he won’t be thrown under a bus—figuratively and more than likely, literally—if shit hits the fan.  

With a resigned sigh, he strains across the leather seat to unlock the passenger side door. Pointedly ignoring her glower, as she marches around the front of the car, and clambers inside. Propping a considerably bulky, steel briefcase between her knees.

“Sleeping on the job, again?” she starts acridly, lips pressing thin in displeasure. Her slender fingers working to free wavy, golden curls from the tight bun atop her head.

Dean huffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “A guy needs at least four hours every once in a while, you know.”

She shoots him a scathing look, clearly peeved enough to find fault in any explanation he has. “I was waiting on you for over an hour. When it became clear you were pulling a no show, I had to call in a favor with Bradbury to hack the city’s surveillance cameras to locate you.”

“Not really hearing the problem, Harvelle.” Dean grins, insolently, before casually resting his arm atop the steering wheel. “You eventually found me, didn’t you?”

Vexation alights a fire in the hazel tones of her eyes. The corners of her mouth twitching as she grits out, “You’re an ass.”

Dean chuckles despite himself, supposing her assessment isn’t entirely false. “I try.” He shrugs, observing her disapproving frown deepen before nodding indicatively towards the case. “That for me?”

Jo’s gaze remains steadfast on him for another protracted minute—disquietly contemplative. Then, as though coming to some internal decision, she hefts the case from the floor, and drops it unconcernedly onto the empty space of bench dividing them. Her recently manicured fingers typing in the code to release the locks before flipping the lid open to reveal a multitude of large bills, all bound and placed in neatly stacked rows. The very sight of the substantial sum eliciting a low, appreciative whistle from between Dean’s lips, as he bends closer to better inspect it.   

“This should be enough to pique the Seraph’s interests.” Tapping her nails absently against the outer casing, she elucidates without prompting, “He typically favors the high rollers, whom collectively participate in a weekly ‘winner take all’ poker game. So, you might need to take an innovative approach to cull him from the herd beforehand.”

Dean casts a quizzical glance over the rim of the case at her. “And if I fail?”

“Trust me,” she intones, warningly. “That isn’t a favorable outcome on your part.”

With a wry smile, he breezily returns, “Of course. His ass or mine; nothing new there.”

Jo conveys her indifference in regards to his predicament with a small, noncommittal shrug. “We need the information he possesses on Crowley’s whereabouts. Do what you need to do, but endeavor to be discreet,” she says matter-of-factly, then rushes to add, almost as an afterthought, “We don’t need a repeat performance of Bucharest.”

Dean scoffs, clutching a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Hey, I single-handedly disbanded the Romanian, Alpha child-trafficking conglomerate with a bullet to that smug bastard, Azazel’s head.” Lifting his pointer finger for emphasis, he finishes proudly, “First shot.”

A derisive snort pierces the quiet confines of the car in response. “Yeah, while almost compromising our entire sting operation with your childish antics. And not to mention…” Snapping the briefcase closed, she pins him with a leveling glare. “You stirred up a media frenzy with that little cat and mouse chase— _in broad daylight_ —through the most congested part of the city. We’re _still_ cleaning up that mess, and that was almost a year ago!”  
  
“He was Azazel’s accountant—it was all necessary to track that son of a bitch down. I couldn’t just let the one lead I had vanish, now could I?” Dean pauses in his justification, tongue darting out to lick habitually at his bottom lip. “You guys solely hire me to hunt these monsters and kill them. What I do and how I do it should be irrelevant, given I ultimately complete the damn job. _Right_?”

With a heavy sigh, she averts her gaze to fixate on some unknown object off in the middle distance. The respite from the conversation allowing him a moment to marvel at yet another breathtaking sunset. Admiring the sky awash in patches of cotton pink and hues of goldenrod that brightly contrast the dark asphalt of the abandoned parking lot. The comprehension that it could be his last intake belatedly striking him, and drawing forth a resonating sense of lifelong regret. Mostly, for concealing his assigned sex marker in avoidance of potential attachments; having always been more a lone wolf, but no less lonely. And all the while, battling against the grain of societal expectations, yet secretly yearning for it just the same.

Fleetingly hopeful that a family isn’t far beyond the realm of possibility before a soft snort escapes him at the ridiculous thought. Inwardly chastising himself for even considering that a killer could be desirable to anyone with a decent amount of sanity; Alpha or otherwise.

“Hey! Earth to Winchester!”

Startled from his musings, Dean comes hurtling back to reality with a painful jerk. Absorbing the rarity of her countenance pinched with concern, her gaze roving over his face as though the answer to his abrupt demeanor change is writ across it.

“What?” he asks dumbly, immensely perturbed by the intense scrutiny.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” she tentatively questions, brows drawing together. “Your essence has altered. It’s…” she trails off, tilting her head in puzzlement while she scents the air; her Beta senses, thankfully, not nearly as keen.

“Just nerves,” he’s quick to supply, silently praying she doesn’t call him on it. “Nothing a few beers can’t cure.”

Eyes narrowing, she scoots nearer to the door, gripping the handle but not yet swinging it outwards. “721 Paradise Avenue; Grand Angelus Hotel. Your reservation is under Campbell. Be there no later than 2000 hours.”

Giving a rigid salute and a playful wink, Dean acknowledges, “Aye, aye, Captain.”

The long-suffering groan he receives is like music to his ears.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The Grand Angelus stands beachside of the San Diego Bay. A towering structure fifteen stories high, and secluded within an impressively vast acreage. The intricate architecture transparently modeled after the Grand Hotel Plaza in Rome, while its grandiosity is proclaimed by its steady influx of wealthy clientele. That of which, percentages largely to those of celebrity status and prosperous businessmen.

So, needless to say, it’s a place Dean stands out like a sore thumb in his leather jacket, worn denims, and mud crusted boots. Garnering suspicious looks from guests and staff alike in the duration of checking in and journeying to his room. Making a mental note to one day hire a tailor to fit him for a suit when he ventures back to the sweeping golden arches of the foyer, and straight through the double glass doors of the casino. Having made certain to inject another dose of synthetic hormones into his system prior to departing the elevator.

It’s a flurry of activity as soon as he steps inside; socialites of all sexes traversing the floor in elegant evening attire. All too wrapped up in their vices to notice the outlier maneuvering past them in direction of the bar, where Dean is thankful to discover it virtually deserted. The Bartender keeping busy, regardless of the lapse in patrons.

Sauntering up without hesitation, Dean leans against the edge of the bar; taking in the alignment of imported liquor on the shelves directly behind the middle-aged Beta with awe. Presuming, that most of the selection has to be well worth his rate of pay.

To his credit, the bartender forgoes the forced pleasantries, and instead leads on with a straightforward, “What can I make you?”

“An old fashioned on the rocks.”

With a curt nod, he commences mixing the drink. The speed in which he creates it highly impressive; then again, Dean supposes he ought to be with the generous tips he must be accumulating.

Just as his drink is being set in front of him, Dean catches whiff of a powerful expulsion of pheromones; the type that usually exudes when an Alpha crosses paths with a potential rival. An indescribable yet cloying scent that is aimed to intimidate, but for Dean, comes as immense reassurance. Their threat translating to mean he’s being successfully perceived as another member of the same sex, and that he's likely a force to be reckoned with.

“I was under the impression I’d been previously acquainted with every guest present this evening,” a distinctly low, gravelly voice sounds from behind, prompting Dean to spin around from the bar in order to match it with a face. His breath hitching when he immediately beholds eyes likened to a fathomless cerulean sea; the surface glinting with intrigue and something Dean can’t quite decipher.

“Apparently, I was mistaken,” the man finishes, effectively breaking Dean’s captivation, and drawing his gaze down to the relaxed curve of his lips.  

Shaking himself, Dean casually reaches for his drink. Clutching the glass tenaciously as though it were a lifeline, while sizing up the man standing poised in front of him, clad in an unconventional dark khaki suit and mismatched necktie. The week's worth of stubble, and hair that appears to have been combed through by fingers, suggesting that he’s either uncaring of his outer aspects or he’s prone to deceiving his enemies into believing him weak.

Dean almost willing to bet the latter.

“I like to arrive fashionably late,” Dean starts, nonchalantly, before throwing back the rich, amber liquid; relishing the potent burn as it travels down his throat. “You know, etiquette and all that.”

He hums in response, and gifts Dean a casual once-over, which oddly leaves him feeling exposed. “Judging by your apparel, I’d wager you’re not really one for tradition.”

“Got me there,” Dean returns stiffly, unable to deny the fact. “And I’d wager you to be a bit of a dick, judging by your need to base people off their _‘apparel’_.”

The man’s lips quirk at that, amused. “Or, perhaps, I’m simply being astute.”

“Same difference,” he fires back, pivoting a degree to flag down the bartender for a second round— instinctively not presenting his backside to the predator.

“Forgive me,” the Alpha says flatly, before decidedly encroaching on Dean’s personal space. Instantly setting Dean on edge when he seemingly looms over him, despite their similar builds. “I believe my social skills have become a bit rusty recently.”

Dean scoffs, tensing at their close proximity. “Isn’t that sort of a requirement for the type of business you run?”

Another hum, this time in assent. Dean watching those startling eyes avert in favor of observing the bartender upon his approach, who deposits not one, but two scotches on the sleek surface before them. A small smile gracing the Alpha’s otherwise unreadable countenance, once he catches Dean’s look of confusion.

“His drinks are on the house.”

“Understood, sir,” the bartender acknowledges, and without further ado, moves on to attend other patrons as they begin congregating near the opposite end of the bar.

Dean doesn’t make to offer his gratitude, purely out of spite for the blatant display of dominance. “I can afford my own drinks,” he says bitterly instead.

“Not if you’re planning on participating in my game.” The man reaches to pick a tumbler, bringing it to his mouth to indulge.

Again, Dean’s breath catches in his throat; though, this time due to shock of another kind. “You’re the Seraph.”

“Of course,” the Seraph confirms without inflection; eyes flicking up to reconnect with Dean’s, pinning him under its intensity. “And you?”

“Campbell.” Grasping his own drink in hopes to ease the sudden dryness in his mouth, he states, “Dean Campbell. And I’m not interested.”

That gives the Seraph pause. His eyes narrowing marginally, as he tilts his head in wonderment. “What is it that does interest you, then?”

“One-on-one, usually.” Dean issues a challenging grin. “More personal that way.”

An indiscernible expression crosses the Seraph’s face at that before it steadily morphs into one of dawning comprehension. “I possess something you desire.”

“I have twice the buy in for your tournament,” Dean presses, not daring to lay all his cards on the table just yet.

Dark brows inch upwards at the proposal. “I typically win triple that amount.” Placing the glass onto the bar, he wonders pensively, “Is there more you’re willing to risk, aside from money?”

Dean inhales deeply, conceiving the trap he may very well be waltzing into. “Anything you want.”

Turning his eyes downcast, the Seraph thoughtfully traces a finger along the rim of his glass. Each passing second almost as unbearable as the job at hand; that is, until the keen stare returns. The Alpha ominously concise in his reply: “You.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter Two**

 

 

                

 

The private backroom he’s escorted to by staff is equally elegant by its interior as the rest of the building, if not more over the top. Remarking silently, as he’s ushered inside, the collection of gold framed Renaissance paintings embellishing the walls, and statuettes of angels adorning any available smooth surface. Every minute detail—from the marble fireplace to the crystal chandelier aloft the table—an argument against frugality, and giving Dean an uneasy impression of definitive influence; similar to that of entering a house of worship.

 _There’s even a fucking harp in the corner,_ he notes with a disbelieving huff; astounded at the level of ostentatiousness, as he pads deeper into the room. Each footfall echoing loudly within the confined space, while the crusty rubber soles of his boots tarnish the pristine flooring, leaving trails of dirt flecks in his wake.

Atop the table stands a silver basin filled with corked bottles of wine embedded in ice, and directly at its side, a platter offering a diversity of decorative hors d’oeuvres. Some of which, Dean easily recognizes the ingredients of, while others he finds visually off-putting. Especially, where caviar is used in abundance.

Still, despite the flash of money, Dean has to admit the improvements of his environment—however gaudy—are comparatively more tolerable than the utter dumps he normally scopes out. His assignments often leading him to vile, amoral holes in the ground, where brawls are imminent, and questionable stains are commonplace. The repulsive stench of vomit, ammonia, and a variation of other bodily fluids never entirely washing clean from the fabrics of his clothes. Therefore, forcing him to chuck the sullied rags into a nearby dumpster, and buy new sets from random thrift shops subsequent to each successful hit.

 _At least it’s a living_ , he reminds himself, dimly recalling what limited options he’s had in regards to a career, next to his current line of work. Preferring to be the hunter rather than the hunted. Aware, that it’s far better to maintain his head above water than spend a lifetime drowning in pursuit of unrealistic objectives.

No matter how desperately he desires to attain them.         

Startled by a sudden knocking that sounds from the main pair of ivory wooden doors, Dean fumbles the two cannoli he’s decided to partake, and hurriedly crams what remains into his mouth. The action freeing his hands on the off chance of an assault, yet further conceiving his aspects as anything but intimidating with puffed cheeks and crumb sprinkled lips.

As the doors swing inwards, Dean is struck by a remarkable flood of Alpha pheromones. The oppressive scent of thunderstorms threatening to overwhelm, as an electric charge diffuses the air. Whoever it is, evidently, inclined to making grand entrances, while flaunting tacit power to exert superiority. Their affluence seemingly enough of a reason to refresh his memory of society's pecking order, despite the fact he's also loaded; at least, for the moment.

_Elitist bastards._

Dean works to swallow the pastry down, as a slim woman—impeccably dressed in a scarlet pantsuit and matching stilettos—steps dignifiedly into view. Her heels clicking obnoxiously loud against the marble flooring with each dutiful stride. The sleek, ebony briefcase she clutches firmly in her hand, and fastened to her person by a pair of handcuffs, signifying her importance.

“Good evening, Mr. Campbell,” she begins, rather unenthusiastically, and places the briefcase with a flourish onto the table. The warm, oceanic tones of her eyes ablaze with implicit knowledge, as they bore unnervingly into him. “Or would that be: Mr. Winchester?”

At the divulgement of his name, Dean swears his heart freezes in his chest. An icy sensation of dread rocketing up his spine, as he dips his head to conceal his shock; all thoughts thrown into disarray.

“Campbell,” he corrects quickly, silently pleased at his capability to retain the easygoing façade despite the glaring danger. And shoots her a disarming grin when he deflects, “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“Yes.” An inscrutable smile of her own strains the corners of her mouth. “I must be,” she agrees, tautly, before mercifully releasing him from the grips of her scrutiny to commence typing in the code.

“Please, forgive my confusion,” she continues at length, an unsettling edge to her tone. “The identification you presented upon check in is dissimilar to the name under your reservation.” Popping open the case, her analyzing gaze seeks him once more with a notable, predatory gleam—a shark scenting blood in the water. “Although the hotel has no policy against the use of aliases, it’s insisted upon to ask your preference to properly address you.”

Dean snorts with incredulity at her seemingly innocuous intent, not fooled in the slightest by the falsity.

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” he challenges, silently cursing himself for the major foul up with the IDs. Having been far too distracted by the opulent atmosphere, at the time, to notice issuing the front desk the wrong license.

Her raspberry glossed lips press firmly into a line in indication of her thinning patience. The fact he isn’t buying the shit she’s selling an apparent insult towards her manipulative abilities.

“I suppose,” she grudgingly concedes, then gracefully spins the case to face him; a small number pad and miniature screen its only contents.

Dean huffs a laugh, and draws his thumb across his mouth, pondering the risks he’s taking. “Well, this is certainly a unique way to ask for my number,” he eventually quips, reveling in the responding tic of anger that forms cracks in the mask of her genteel veneer.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she all but sneers, her professional demeanor momentarily lapsing. “It’s standard procedure. We require that you enter your checking account information in order to transfer your funds to be kept in escrow until a winner is determined. Otherwise, the game will not commence.”

Sensing no other options in the matter, he curtly nods his comprehension, and bends over the table to punch in the sequence—thankful to have made the deposit prior to the bank closing for the day. “Making fools of us all?”

“Consider it more an assurance of integrity,” she returns, somewhat patronizingly. Waiting until he has completed the task to add, “And a personalized passcode as well, if you would.” When he shoots her a questioning look, she gladly elucidates, “A security measure to maintain privacy, of course.”

“That’s reassuring,” he murmurs flatly, while hastily typing in the digits of a specific birthday he’ll never permit himself to forget. “Can I, at least, have the name of the person currently holding my life in their hands?”

After shutting the lid and latching the case, she affords him an indulgent smirk; flashing an incredibly perfect set of teeth. “Naomi.”

“What—no last name?” Dean tries, feeling ill at ease by the noteworthy shroud of secrecy overhanging them.

“I’m afraid not.” With a small bob of her head, Naomi concludes their forced interaction with a rehearsed: “Good luck, Mr. Campbell.” And collects the briefcase before promptly making a beeline for the doors.

Leaving Dean with a sinking suspicion he’s just signed a contract with the devil.

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Everything I have will be riding on a game of _chess_?”

Mediterranean eyes regard him coolly from beneath dark lashes. The Seraph’s countenance revealing nothing in relation to his inner thoughts. “Is that a problem?”

Dean chuckles, beside himself with the new lengths he’s willing to go for a paltry wage. And exhales audibly, as he plops down onto his respective chair flanking the table—eying the glass pieces of the chess set with increasing uncertainty.

“Nah. It’s just—” He gestures weakly to the board. “Not what I expected.”

The Seraph’s lips quirk again, causing Dean to quietly remark at how effortless it is to amuse the dickbag. “I presumed you would prefer staking your life on a game of skill rather than one where you rely heavily on chance,” he explains with the absence of a shrug, fingers fiddling with the ivory rook at his end of the board.

A soft scoff escapes Dean at that. “Poker isn’t entirely based on luck.”

“True.” Setting the rook down with a _click_ , he glances up to trap Dean under the weight of his stare. “I concede it is a combination of the two; however, the statistics of winning are far greater in terms of strategy versus one’s ability to bluff convincingly.”

“Tell that to all the history buffs,” Dean counters, quelling the urge to squirm uncomfortably. “Besides, luck’s really the only thing I’ve got going for me.”

The Seraph is quick to take exception to that with a low, contemplative hum. “I believe you underestimate yourself.” Reaching for a pawn, he indicates the start of the game by gliding the piece forward until it comes to rest on a black square. “You’ve honed your techniques of camouflage in order to hide in plain sight; therefore, affording you the advantage over your enemies.” Canting is head to the side, he wonders, “Would you still attribute that to happenstance?”

Dean’s hand falters over his own pawn, his mind whirring with the jarring implications. Resolutely keeping his eyes trained on the checkered pattern, so as not to give away the consternation overcoming him.

“Most Alphas are natural stealth hunters,” Dean says at length, refocusing on the game, and finally daring a move.

“Yet, you are neither of those— _naturally_ —are you?”

Dean’s attention snaps up from the board to behold the Seraph’s eyes, glinting with humor at his unrestrained bewilderment. “I—you—what?” he stutters, eloquent as ever; his blood running cold. “Come again?”

The Seraph’s expression incrementally darkens, his head inclining and nostrils flaring. “It’s rather subtle. I couldn’t distinguish it while surrounded by my guests, but faux hormones have a distinct musk—a chemical perfume that’s nearly identical to cleaning products. Especially, those sold on the black market.”

Dean strives to swallow past the panic forming like a lead ball in his throat. Distraught, as he struggles to keep tabs on his opponent’s moves; the Alpha swiftly advancing on his glass army.

“I didn’t come here to talk about myself,” he mutters, uncertain how to defend against such acute perception.

“No,” the Seraph agrees, shunting Dean’s bishop from play by use of his knight. “You’re here for information on Crowley.”

Dean huffs in disbelief, nervously eying the white queen’s position. “You think you can read me that easily, huh?”

“I know I can.” Taking out Dean’s rook, he expands, “I have nothing else equal in value to your bid, and you wouldn’t be risking your neck merely for money. Plus,” he pauses, visibly malcontent. “It so happens that I have a score to settle.”

“No honor among thieves,” Dean comments, vapidly, before successfully capturing the Seraph’s knight. “Though, it doesn’t explain how you knew I was interested in him.”

A crafty smirk etches slowly across the Alpha’s face at that. “You just told me.” Then, with a single unforeseen maneuver, declares: “Check.”

_Shit!_

Dean desperately scans the playing field, discovering only one direction for his king to flee; now effectively trapped on a row between the white queen and the rook. Realization dawning that he’s only two turns away from losing everything, and understanding, rather belatedly, that there isn’t anything he can possibly do to change that fate.

“You may as well concede the match,” the Seraph says; the rumble of his chair as he pulls it from the table reverberating off the walls of the room.

Heart rate quickening, Dean ungracefully follows suit; though, he hurriedly moves to insert himself in a safe space between the Alpha and the doors. Loathe to surrender the battle just yet.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” he asserts with a growl, reaching inside his jacket for the hunting knife the staff missed upon inspection. Thanking his lucky stars the material is thick enough to conceal the weapon’s girth. “You’re going to tell me about Crowley, then I’m going to leave.”

The Seraph regards him with a clinical coldness that sends a shiver crawling down the extent of his spine. “That isn’t wise,” he warns lowly, eliciting a strained laugh from Dean.

“No? Pretty sure I’m the one with the upper hand,” Dean goads, purposely flicking his wrist to menacingly catch light on the serrated blade.

With a long-suffering sigh, the Seraph considers the board and pieces intently. His fingers skimming its edge in an almost languid manner, thumb tracing the contours of the black knight with an odd sort of gentleness. His actions effectively throwing Dean off guard enough that he doesn’t expect for him to suddenly move with near inhuman speed, heaving the entirety of the set in his direction. Only allowing Dean a second to fling his arms up to act as a meager shield against the barraging figures of glass.

A hand latches painfully onto his wrist moments after; the steely grip grinding the fragile bones until the pain forces him to relinquish the knife. Dean emitting a curse, as he listens to his only defense clatter to the floor before he's roughly shoved in reverse, his breath rushing from his lungs when his backside impacts a wall. The Alpha’s forearm pinning him against the solid surface by the throat, applying enough pressure to onset asphyxiation.

Crystal skies pierce through the dark fog inching inwards, as Dean futilely fights the call of oblivion. Vaguely registering the ripping of cloth and admonishing _tsk_ from the Alpha when the tiny transmitter, taped a few inches beneath his armpit, becomes exposed. His heart hammering against his ribs, as he feels a rough brush of stubble against his cheek.

“You were wrong, Dean,” the Seraph coos against the shell of his ear, clearly unaffected by the nails clawing red marks across his bared forearm in a bid for freedom. Dean's terror building as his body gradually slackens; the darkness engulfing him, and leaving him with only the comfort of the Alpha's sinister voice.

“You’re mine, now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 

 

 

_“Don’t make a sound.”_

_Dean jerks when a hand clamps firmly over his mouth. His senses offering no clues to his whereabouts, save for the suffocating heat and abysmal darkness encompassing them. The raw skin of his knees aching, as they brush across coarse carpeting. Irritating the healing scabs to the point of reopening, and causing a flare of pain that elicits a soft whimper from the chapped and split flesh of his lips._

_“You’ll be okay,” the voice, roughened by years of disuse, hushes him with an accompanying puff of air against the curve of his ear. Though, the notable quaver makes the reassurance scarcely convincing. “I won’t let—”_

_Their meager attempt at comfort is curtailed by a sudden, deafening explosion that rocks the ground beneath them. The ensuing cacophonies of crashes, curses, and wild barking causing Dean to cower closer to the comparatively larger individual behind him. Seeking refuge in the strength of the stranger’s arms, and feeling the flex of hard muscle when they tighten around him, protectively._

_Cutting above the pandemonium, the resolved whisper from his unidentified protector sends an icy chill racing down his spine; the gravity of their words unmistakable._

_“It’s time to run.”_

Dean jolts awake with a desperate gasp; conceiving he’s choking by the distinct pressure digging mercilessly into his throat. His hand instantly reaching to claw at the object affixed around his neck—only to have a kernel of fear take root deep in his gut when the pads of his fingers trace the sleek curvature of a metallic band. Dejectedly, discovering the ends secured inside a sturdy, solid plastic connector with no detectable release latch to withstand tampering. Much similar to those commonly used by skin traffickers in lieu of cattle tags to keep track of their valuable commodities.

 _I’ve been collared,_ he registers with growing trepidation, pulse pounding a relentless rhythm against his temples. _Like a fucking animal!_

In his haste to sit upright, he realizes his mistake in the action, as his bleary world takes to spinning and tilting sharply on its axis. The ringing in his ears ratcheting up in volume, while his arms tremble with effort to sustain his weight.

Collapsing back onto the soft surface of what he easily guesses is a bed, Dean screws his eyes shut, and reluctantly draws upon the teachings of his father. Recalling, the first steps of centering himself; striving to respire slow and evenly, until the crippling terror subsides. Finding, in the settling calm, that the collar isn’t constricting his airway in the slightest, and that his panic has been the true source of the sensation.

With the fog of disorientation steadily lifting, Dean commences taking stock of his situation. Discovering himself alone in a room, of which its design closely resembles the one where he’d lost to the smug Alpha. The only differences being the bedroom furnishings that have taken place of the table, and the sheer, golden draperies covering the expanse of a window that hardly conceals him from the outside world. Offering an illusion of freedom, while shadowy outlines of iron bars bleeding through the fabric serve to solidify his prisoner status.

Dean’s throat is unsurprisingly tender when he swallows; conjecturing that his trachea has been bruised, but is, otherwise, unharmed. Inwardly debating whether or not to mark off the fact he’s still alive as a positive; especially, with the looming likelihood of being sold off as breeding stock.

“Fuck my life,” he grouses, voice weak and cracking. Fighting for traction against the silky golden sheets beneath him, until he’s partially seated with his head resting at an awkward angle against the unforgiving surface of the headboard. Grateful, to find he’s remained fully clothed in the duration of his unconscious handling. The Alpha bastard, apparently, having some shred of decency after all, but not nearly enough to save grace.

With no clock in sight, and his burner phone seized, Dean is forced to make a guess as to the length of time he’s been comatose. Judging by the lethargy and heaviness to his limbs, plus the sporadic waves of nausea, he can easily infer that it’s been a little more than a few hours. Kept under, presumably, by a sedative the Alpha likely administered subsequent to him losing consciousness. Probably, in order to prevent any further blemishes to Dean’s body with hopes of higher bids from potential buyers.

Lord only knowing if he’s already been made victim of licentiousness in the interim.

Dean is unceremoniously wrenched from his musings by the ominous noise of a heavy bolt sliding free, heralding someone’s arrival. The polite knock that sounds merely seconds afterwards taking Dean by complete surprise—having expected a more malevolent greeting rather than one of courtesy, all things considered. And noting how a delicate silence descends when he doesn’t immediately make to acknowledge it, as though the person on the other side is debating if he’s regained enough of his sensibilities to be capable. Which is, to say the least, exceedingly peculiar, given the fact he should be thoroughly stripped of any free will by this point.

Curious now, Dean opts to remain mute. Enduring their reserved indecision, until he’s rewarded with another set of tentative knocks; though, this time done fractionally louder.

“Yeah?” he rasps, positive the repetition won’t cease unless he responds.

The door is whisper quiet while it slowly swings outwards to reveal a teenage girl, who appears to be anything but thrilled to be there. Dean instantly catching himself in the act of scrutinizing the way her hair cascades in loose waves over one shoulder, and that along the other side of her head, it’s been neatly portioned and pulled into tight braids. Mascara is smudged around her lashes with purpose to enhance the cobalt tones of her eyes, causing them to be ever more striking, even from a distance. The bland, ebony cocktail dress she’s clad in incongruous to her unique sense of style, and is worn unwillingly, if the imperceptible hunch to her posture is anything to go by. Formal attire, seemingly, robbing her of her confidence.

In her hands, she balances a silver tray supporting an array of food. The collective, familiar aromas permeating the room within seconds, and calling to him like a siren at sea.

“May I come in?” she starts, sounding entirely rehearsed with a tone that’s awfully defiant for one frozen at the threshold, requesting permission.

“I have a choice?” Dean returns, his brows lifting expectantly at the way her expression sours.

“With me?” A huff. “Yeah,” she answers, snippy, though Dean is beginning to suspect he isn’t responsible for her irascible mood. And considers her for another protracted minute, as he belatedly notes the arrest to her gaze. Staring him down with such unnerving intensity, he wonders if she’s able to see straight through to the back of his skull. Her look suggesting how keenly aware she is of his own covert monster currently lying dormant within him, and steeling herself to either fight or flee at any hint of movement. The girl being far too young, Dean determines, to be this cognizant of the danger he presents.

_Unless…_

With an audible exhale, Dean shifts to support his weight against his elbows. His voice hoarse, but nonthreatening when he utters his observation. “You’re not wearing a collar.”

“Do you want your food or not?” she’s quick to dodge; her gaze skittering away at long last. Incredibly obvious in her attempt to evade his probing stare by the way her attention bounces from object to object.

Dean chuckles weakly despite himself. Disgusted, by what her discomfort implies. “Are you always this hospitable?”

Her eyes dart back to him at his none too subtle accusation. The anger that’s been simmering beneath the surface now rising in a tidal wave to consume.

“ _No_ ,” she practically snarls, and to drive her point home, flings the tray through the door. Uncaring of how the contents strew across the immaculate, ivory carpeting, while she makes to slam the door with enough force to rattle the frames of the paintings. The scraping of the bolt that summarily follows unsettling in its finality.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, falling back to the mattress to scrub a callused hand over his eyes. The solid reminder of his fate biting at the flesh of his neck, as the Seraph’s words replay within the bone confines of his skull; echoing off the chambers that harbor his memories.

_“You’re mine, now.”_

 

~*~

 

 

After drifting in conscious limbo for what he believes is hours, Dean eventually resolves to clean the mess from sheer lack of anything more productive to do. And while still under the waning influence of the sedative, he finds that the normally effortless task of motion has become somewhat of an arduous one. His movements slightly clumsy while he rises from the bed. Noting, that his boots have been removed and are now missing, as he shuffles languidly on socked feet in direction of the secondary door at the opposite end of the room. Not surprised, in the least, when it leads him directly into an en suite bathroom, complete with a spacious Jacuzzi bath and strategically placed crystal bowls of potpourri; the details no less extravagant than that of the bedchamber.

“I’m in a five star prison.” Dean scoffs, crinkling his nose at the onslaught of flowery fragrance upon venturing further inside. Bending to locate the sets of exceedingly fluffy towels hidden within the cherry wood cabinets beneath the tempered glass sink, all meticulously folded aside toiletries and other beauty care products.

Collecting the towels and a bottle of liquid soap, he dumps half of each into the raised basin of the sink, and waves a hand over the sensor. Allowing the water to run until they’ve become sufficiently dampened and sudsy before gathering them back up, and ambling out.

Dean studies the contents of the meal when he kneels to collect the largest pieces from the floor to place onto the tray; pancakes, bacon, eggs, and sausage—everything essential for breakfast. The realization prompting him to inspect the curtains again to observe the degree of light behind them having increased since the last time he checked.

 _So, I’ve been asleep the entire night._ Shaking his head, he refocuses on the task at hand. Scrubbing vigorously to remove the syrup embedded in the fibers, while purposely disregarding the distinct slide of the deadbolt. Already aware of the person’s identity, even before an overwhelming scent of cinnamon spice pervades the air. Feeling the vibrations of footfalls beneath his palm upon their silent approach, until they’re close enough for him to discern the soft brushing of shoes against the carpeting.

“Out of all the possible reactions I anticipated, I admit, this is not one I envisioned.”

Dean snorts in derisive response. “And what is it _exactly_ that you ‘envisioned’?” he starts, finding his feet, and balling the soiled towels in his hands. Discovering the Alpha standing uncomfortably close when he whirls around to face him, and clad in the same suit from the previous night. “Class 5 hurricane; complete and utter destruction?”

“Frankly, yes,” the Seraph says casually, scanning the state of the room with perceptible intrigue. “It is the usual response, after all.”

“To being drugged and imprisoned?” Dean snaps back with an accompanying scoff at the Alpha’s striking apathy. “Gee, that’s a real shocker.”

The Seraph’s lips pull thin in a tight frown; though, he pointedly keeps his eyes averted. “You are not my prisoner, Dean,” he states, almost convincingly earnest, while endeavoring to sidestep the entire drugging him accusation. “Considering, your willingness upon our agreement.”

“Is that right?” Dean returns lowly, tossing the wad unconcernedly to the small but elegant breakfast table adjacent the window; the slap of wet cloth against the wood piercing the tension. “Pretty sure a willing person wouldn’t be choked, drugged, tagged, and locked inside a room.”

At that, startling blue eyes seek him again. The Seraph’s gaze absolutely glacial, his expression thunderous. “It was necessary. You weren’t complying with the terms of the deal.”

“ _Necessary_ ,” Dean parrots, though he’s quickly curtailed before a snarky remark has a chance to slip out.

“I don’t wish to harm you, otherwise.”

Pursing his lips, Dean glances about the room with incredulity; his gaze falling upon the rumpled sheets of the bed. “As long as I’m compliant. Catering to your every whim, right?”

“I won’t force myself on you,” the Seraph suddenly informs with such astounding veracity, it momentarily takes Dean aback. “Nor will I require you, at any point, to perform lewd acts against your will. You are free to make decisions, within reason. There are, of course, a few stipulations.”

“Yeah?” Dean habitually licks his lips, and shifts his weight between feet in challenge. “In that case, I want to make a phone call.”

“Why?” The Seraph’s eyes narrow at the request, instantly suspicious.

Emitting a noise of exasperation, Dean folds his arms over his chest, and casually quips, “To tell someone about the BM I had yesterday.” Then, “What’s it to you?”

“No,” comes the expected reply. “I can’t allow you to do that,” he intones, brooking no room for argument.

“Fine. Then, I want to go for a walk,” Dean asserts, deciding to continue testing the limits of his so-called autonomy.

A look of consideration crosses the Seraph’s face; his head canting a fraction to the side, pinning Dean beneath his scrutiny. The Alpha seemingly endeavoring to pierce through his outer shell to the soft, vulnerable layer of his core. “As long as I accompany you.”

An unbidden growl of protest escapes Dean at that. “Alone.”

“No,” the Seraph returns firmly, unyielding as the monolith he presents himself to be.

Dean’s feet are suddenly moving, guiding him to pace the floor, as he stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his faded denims. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all, he concludes, “So, I can’t make any decisions like you claim.”

“No, you have freedom.”

The statement is hollow—trite. Halting Dean in his tracks, as he shoots his captor a leveling glare. “‘You keep using that word; I don’t think it means what you think it means.'” When he receives a perplexed look from the Alpha, Dean growls out, “Did you feed this bullshit to her, too?”

“Her?” the Seraph parrots before a spark of recognition alights his eyes. “You mean Claire. I haven’t compelled her to do anything.”

“Yeah, I bet you haven’t,” Dean says, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just deluded her into believing the idea of gifting herself to me wasn’t yours.” Jutting his chin, he wonders, “How long did it take for her to become your unresisting slave? A week? Two weeks?”

The Seraph’s lips pull back in a snarl, ire scarcely bridled. “You know nothing of which you speak," he says, voice lowered an octave. Then, pivots on his heel to storm from the room; the door remaining open in silent invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'You keep using that word; I don't think it means what you think it means.' -Inigo Montoya (The Princess Bride)


End file.
